


So be good for goodness sake

by cryogenia



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Abuse, Brainwashing, Creepy Grandpa Pierce, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 14:08:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2853575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryogenia/pseuds/cryogenia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Asset carries out a very special mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You'd better watch out

**Author's Note:**

> So on this happiest and most family-oriented of days, I chose to post (unbeta'd) subterfuge and horror. Please note this was prompted by a request on the HYDRA trash meme - if you don't know what that is, you might wish to check the prompt at the end before deciding if you want to proceed. 
> 
> Uh, happy dumpster Christmas?

The target’s residence is part of a gated community, situated at the north point of a man-made lake. There is ice, but it is not thick enough to withstand his augmented frame, so he has taken the frontage road ringing the lake. Dark approach, no earpiece. When he hears engines, he is expected to determine their bearing and evade on his own. 

It takes the better part of an hour to circle around to the home from the drop site, and by then it is almost too late. The mission parameters specifically require he complete the plant while the targets are inside the home. There are missions where the objective is to be seen, and there are missions where the objective is to send a message. He is not to be seen this time, but he is to deliver a message. 

He waits for the most recent set of taillights to recede before he breaks cover from the convenient snow structure positioned just south of the home. Based on past count, unmarked security vehicle X19CU9 will not return for at least twelve minutes. He checks again for cameras, identifies three: mailbox (facing south), porch (facing east), garage (facing west). This residence belongs to the family of a high-level operative, and their security system is more robust than most civilians’. 

The Asset sweeps wide to the west, keeping to the shadows just beyond the yellow security light. The porch camera is most certainly tuned to the vulnerable back door there; likewise, the garage mount will focus on the garage entrance. He wishes he could ask if the video feed are still live. A handler is on site to infiltrate and disarm, but closing eyes was not part of the mission briefing, and he has no way to know when handlers are reading his thoughts. Even if they are, they cannot relay the answer. He scoops up a handful of snow instead, spits on it to render it slushy. He cocks his arm back until the plates calibrate, then hurls the payload round. 

The snowball sticks exactly on target, just to the left of the garage top camera. Its curvature should create a blind spot in the video without triggering any obscured-glass sensors. Its temperature should confuse any heat sensors. 

The Asset drops into a low crouch and approaches in a squat-walk, tactical pack held over his head. There are vehicles parked along the west side of the driveway, two civilian-cass Humvees and a modified Enforcer disguised as a high-end civilian luxury car. 379XKU - his main handler’s car. He draws close to the Enforcer and uses it for added cover while he examines the tracks leading up to the house. The snow in the side yard is marred with a multitude of footprints: adult male dress shoes and female heel points. Child-sized boots and a mid size set that could belong either to a large boy or young teen. The quantity is in line with his briefing: targets will be gathered for a ‘Christmas Eve’ party, multiple generations celebrating in the basement level of the home. 

‘Christmas Eve’ is a secular holiday, observed prior to the Christian holiday on December the 25th. Characterized by travel, feasting, token gift-giving.

Christmas Eve used to mean something else, but he can’t remember what.

He decides it would be too noticeable to erase the tracks around the vehicles. The occupants will be subconsciously expecting their own footprints in the snow. And his boots are too wide to conform to the grooves of the mens’ dress shoes, but if he goes up on the balls of his bare feet he can fit into the flat fronts of the females’ pump prints. The Asset removes his thick boots and socks and places them into his tactical pack. It is not a standard issue rucksack. There is only one compartment, and a drawstring to hold it closed.

The Asset takes a deep breath and zigzags through the whorl of tracks, fighting the creeping sting of the snow. The urge to eliminate is immediate and intense, animal reaction to the sudden drop in temperature, but he cannot. piss. If he pisses he will soil the uniform. They will punish him if he soils his uniform. He wakes up already with ammonia crystallized on his skin and it mixes with the defrosting solution and burns the skin off his legs. Irritating.

He dead ends at a ‘welcome’ mat and draws in three more calming breaths. The targets appear to have entered via a side garage door. High probability they will exit the same way. The Asset makes note of it and banks into the bushes along the side of the house, trailing his tactical pack low to obscure his trail. His handler prepared him with a detailed mission map, identifying fifteen potential points of entry; the chosen one will be marked for him. Though he does not know how. Perhaps it is a test? This handler often evaluates his skills. This handler often does not tell him when. If he does not pass, it will be worse than defrosting. It will be -

There. _There._ A small, high window in the northwest corner. Its panes are dark, though there is an electrical candle in the sill. The candle’s bulb is not lit.

He doubles back to make sure of his assessment, but he is confident he has judged correctly. Every window along this side has an elaborate glowing display save this one. He takes a running leap and catches the sill with his flesh hand, struggles to pull himself up under the weight of his pack and disguise. 

His cover is bright red, like a beacon against the tan siding. He does not understand why bright colors are a disguise in this context. He likes his darker Kevlar, favors rippled patterns in an urban environment. His handler had even permitted objections with a lopsided smile. 

_Cultural relevance_ , he’d said, before addressing the Asset’s insolence. _You’ll blend right in._

The Asset boosts the window with his augmented arm, scopes the room closely before pulling himself through. The room is a small study suitable for an older professional. Large hardwood desk, thick office chair. Bookshelves on the other three walls, covered in small decorative objects. He alights carefully next to the desk and wipes his snowy feet on the fur trim of his disguise, mops up every last tell-tale drip of melt from the floor. The window is closed within seconds to prevent the targets from noticing any difference in temperature.

Murmuring voices to the east and south. He drops to his belly and the sound intensifies through the floorboards. Handler’s assessment confirmed - majority of targets congregated on basement level. The Asset decides against putting on his boots. Bare foot maneuvers will be less resonant. 

He rises with his pack and roll-steps over the hardwood, one silent foot at a time. Without the benefit of overhead lights or the electric candle, the shadows in the study grow steadily darker as he moves away from the window. He feels around the outline of the door with his sensitive hand. Hinges on the right mean a clockwise rotating knob, door opening outward. He tugs off a velvet glove and searches through his pack for the WD-40, locates it by feel alone. Plastic cap, long thin spout. One squirt per hinge, and then it’s back in the sack so he can don the glove again. Velvet is over-warm, but it does not leave prints. 

A woman’s voice wails unexpectedly - same level, not through the floor - and he whips into the corner, breathing harsh, accelerated. There is a strict no-engagement order; he is here to send a message. If she comes through this door, he must make himself very small behind it. He can catch it carefully to avoid any distracting bounceback. A normal civilian should not notice, but. But. He is wearing _red_ , he cannot break her neck, his handler is on site and he is going to be punished, she is -

Singing. 

The noise in his mind abates in favor of the noise from the hall, resolving as the woman’s shrieks pair with jingling bells. The trip-tap-tap of drums. The targets do not have a permit for live music in a private residence, ergo: the woman’s voice must be a recording. He holds very still for thirty-five more seconds, quivering in time with his heartbeat. Definitely, definitely prerecorded music, repeating the same refrain every four to five sentences. 

Music is within acceptable parameters. Music is played at seasonal parties. The noise might even mask any inadvertent sounds. He presses his nose to the crack and rotates the doorknob by degrees, straining for any sign that the music-instigator is still on this level.

Line of sight, acquired. No targets visible through the slight gap in the door. He tugs it open wider, checks his ten and two. The study appears to be situated at the end of a long corridor - the west hallway, on the diagram his handler had provided. The Asset spins out into the open space and tugs the door into a closed position, just barely short of latching. It is unlikely civilian targets would notice the door is soft set, and an unhitched latch is safest in case he needs to bolt. When he is frightened his hand tends to crush anything he grips, and he cannot risk rendering the door inoperable if he is under fire. 

The woman is still singing about horses and snow from the south-east, the same direction as he needs to proceed. He follows her voice to a junction and performs another corner check. No sign of activity. The east-west hall is lined with strings of white LEDs - ineffective lighting for normal humans, but perfect for his purposes. He pads along fast and low to the ground, carrying the payload high on his back. There is an open space up ahead - most certainly the drop site, but also, heightened risk. The entrance to the lower level is at the far southeast corner. Slatted banister railing, circling a stairwell. If any targets come even halfway up the stairs, they will be able to see him. 

He is here to send a message. He must not be seen.

He whips into the open room, every inch of his body tingling. It looks like a hotel, like any other nice place for an ambush. Multiple soft seats, a roaring fire in a hearth. Overhead speakers, the source of the prerecorded music. 

Small white statues on every surface, faceless people with disproportionate wings. Their ceramic eyes make him uncomfortable for reasons he cannot explain.

A large conifer is propped up in the northwest corner, decorated with LEDs and glass baubles. Many boxes, covered in bright paper. His payload will go unnoticed amidst the bright cacophony. He opens his red tactical sack and withdraws it, four identical rectangular boxes, also wrapped in colorful paper. Red and white stripes. 

_Candy canes_ , he thinks absently.

Something heavy shifts and slides as he wedges the first package flat against the wall. It is not candy canes. 

He arranges the other three packages equidistant around the tree, obscured behind larger, more lavishly decorated boxes. His handler will activate them remotely, only after the targets have had time to find the message he must leave. 

The Asset draws close to the fireplace, one eye still trained on the downstairs railing. It is a gas hearth with a faux log at the center, three hot points of blue flame burning steadily at the base. He unfolds a thick letter from his pack and places it on the wide sitting stones in front of the fire. Bright seasonal paper with encrypted language. The targets are meant to know who has visited, with no clue who ordered the strike. 

He fusses with the placement until it is just right, catching the light so the gilded border glows. Task two of three, complete.

The noise from below peaks sharply and he ducks behind the nearest soft seat. Almost done. Almost out. He peers up over the back of a multi-person chair and scans the room again, searching for -- yes. His handler’s signal is laid out on a low table next to the conifer, waiting for the Asset to reply. 

He drags his pack over and surveys a plate filled with round tack, a heaping glass of milk. He is meant to take a mouthful of each. His targets will accept it as a cultural tradition; his handler will take it as a sign he’s completed the plant. He reaches for a piece of tack, and -

The jingling bells in the background snap off like they’ve been muzzled. Every instinct _screams_. He whirls to check all points of ingress, but no targets are visible. The speakers still have a ‘power’ light. The Asset goes down on his knees behind the table, ready to roll away if there’s the slightest hint of movement.

A low thrum ripples out from the speakers, like the amplified twang of a bowstring. A new song. Stupid. He is so stupid, it is just the next track in the recording. If his handler is watching his thoughts right now, he would be so very ashamed.

He is about to get up when the woman’s voice kicks back in, haunting and low, and it hits him like a steel toe to the kidney.

He has never heard this voice before. He does not know this language. Yet he knows this.

He is on his knees and he _knows_ this. 

The burbling voices are everywhere at once, rising through the floorboards, expanding to the roof. The ceiling is expanding. There is a tree but there are also arches, windows that curve into points at the top. 

_Veni, veni..._

Not tack but wafers. Not milk but wine. He is on his knees, and they are on their knees, and the woman is singing, singing, high and clear, in a language he has never known but also heard his entire life.

Somewhere, distantly, the Asset thinks ‘malfunction’. 

Vigil is timeless like a hot summer day, like a stakeout in Kosovo with no backup coming. He cannot tell how long he kneels. He cannot name the handler kneeling beside him. She has thick curls framing her face and wrinkles close to her eyes, and he must be very quiet and pay attention or she will tell his father and father will strap him within an inch of his life. The Secretary will strap him. His handler is the Secretary. The Secretary said to be quiet and pay attention, because he’s delivering a message, and he must not be seen.

There is a small squeak, south by south-east. Squeaking is not allowed at Vigil. He’s on his knees with his sisters and they have to be quiet. He glares at Becca, who is hanging on the railing, eyes as wide as dinner plates. His sister knows better than to play on stairs.

_Becca is on the stairs._

He jumps up so fast his arm gets caught in a calibration loop, rippling like a wave up and down over and over. Becca is staring at him like she can’t believe he’s real and he can’t believe he let her see him. Their father is going to be so mad. He doesn’t want it to hurt. It’s Christmas Eve, and the family is all here, and they’re supposed to sit through to midnight together. 

He draws a finger up to shush her, but it’s already too late. Becca is yelling something down the stairs, and the quality of the party noise changes. Vigil is broken. Footsteps coming their way. His handler will know how badly he’s failed. But there is a strict no-kill order, because it’s about sending a message, and he can’t kill his baby sister even if her eyes are brown and her hair is completely the wrong color.

The Asset makes a split second decision and sweeps the hard tack into his sack, plate and all. He bolts back the way he came, sick with dread, just as the first of the packages starts to ring behind him. 

It’s going to hurt.


	2. You'd better not cry

The residence is dark when he collapses across the threshold. No motion sensors activate to click on the patio light. Every muscle in his quadriceps is jumping, back and forth with no coherent rhythm. He has been running for hours. He has been running from the rendezvous point. He has been running to his handler, because there is never a point to run from the rendezvous point. They have eyes burned into his skin. They can see him everywhere.

His arm creaks and recalibrates when he pushes himself up. It is starting to overheat beneath the disguise. He boosts the sliding door with his other hand, leaving sweaty fingerprints on the pristine glass. He does not know when he lost the glove.

Activity in the northern sitting room. He glides toward it on trembling legs, beyond exhaustion now. Beyond ache. It is past 02:00, and he has missed the rendezvous. 

They will make him remember pain.

The Secretary is waiting in a high-backed armchair, an expansive, studded leather piece that he nonetheless dominates. He is wearing a conical red hat with fur trim, the match to the Asset’s colorful costume.

The Asset’s gear is no longer red. He crawled through the mud at some point, near the lake. There are places on his chest where it has frozen to his skin. 

“There you are. Do you have any idea what time it is?” His handler’s voice is deceptively calm, conversational. The type of voice that does not require volume to command complete attention. “I was worried sick.”

The Asset scrambles to present himself, down on his knees in full sight of the chair. He tears the tactical sack open and rakes its contents across the floor in front of the Secretary, desperate to show at the least he is hiding nothing. Round pieces of tack roll and shatter across the hardwood.

There is a real fire here, in a deep, white brick hearth. Its heat closes around him like a fist.

His handler surveys his pitiful offering with a strangely slanted smile. There is something uncharacteristically loose about about his movements. 

“For me? You shouldn’t have.”

He glances to his left, that same small smile intensifying. There is a plate of identical round tack and a glass of yellow milk sitting on a tray table at his elbow. No. Not milk. The air around him reeks of ethanol and culinary spices.

The Asset digs his fingers into his thighs, wills every muscle to stay loose and still. He does not know what is coming, but it will hurt more if he is tense. 

His handler picks up the glass, takes a long, pleasured draught. 

“Come here,” the Secretary says, patting his right knee. “Why don’t you tell me what you want for Christmas?”

The Asset glances up in confusion, first at the hand, then his handler’s face. He does not know this method of punishment. Unless it is that he is too far out of reach. He puts his metal hand up on the chair beside the Secretary’s leg, leaning in close. Too close? His disguise is starting to thaw. They usually don’t like it when he gets their clothes wet. His blood does not come out, and their clothes cost more than he does. 

The Secretary must come to the same conclusion as he does, because he lifts a wrinkled hand. 

“No,” his handler says in disgust. “Take that off, first.” He makes a little gesture that indicates ‘all of it’.

The Asset tugs off the hateful things numbly, one after the other. Black belt, red coat, pants, undergarments. He does not remember having put the black boots back on. His toes are red and mangled when he peels them off. 

His handler winces in false sympathy.

“That looks like it hurts.”

The Asset nods. He is unsure if it will make it worse to admit it. They know his thoughts anyway, they are hooked into his mind. They might even remove the memory if he is very obedient.

The Secretary pats his knee again.

“Come on,” he says. “Come on up.”

The Asset’s knees are shaking as he rises from the floor. He paws at the arms of the chair, trying to work out how to accommodate the non-standard request. There isn’t room for him to sit next to his handler. Is he meant to sit on him? His handler tolerates a few moments of confused fumbling before his withered hands lash out, quick as a snake, and wrap around the Asset’s waist. 

“Sit!” the Secretary barks, all traces of softness gone. The Asset drops immediately, letting his handler guide him, until he is awkwardly perched in his handler’s lap.

The Secretary arranges him sideways across his knees, both arms snug around the Asset’s waist. It is a difficult fit, and it cannot be comfortable for a human. The Asset’s metal arm seizes the back of the chair and lifts, easing his weight upward to alleviate the pressure on the Secretary’s bony knees. His legs hook over the side of the chair’s arm, just barely missing the tray table.

“There we go,” his handler purrs. His breath is hot and poisonous against the Asset’s neck. “Now. Why don’t you tell Santa: have you been a good boy this year?” 

Another non-standard request. He does not know the reason for the phrasing, but he understands the intent. _Mission report_. He is going to have to recount his failures, he is going to have to explain how he malfunctioned. 

The Secretary is just smiling at him, looking him up and down as though there is something inside his naked chest that is appealing. He hopes it is not his lungs. 

“All payloads delivered,” he whispers. His voice sounds as frozen as the rest of him feels. “But my cover was compromised.” 

“And why was that?”

_Because --_

His tongue curls and sticks to the back of his teeth, swollen to three times its size. Becca was there, her little round face watching him. Except everything about her was wrong, her eyes and her hair and the weird corduroy pants. Becca never wore corduroy pants. She had little dresses with lace at the collar, and a tan coat with big buttons.

A hand slides up his back and fists into his hair, yanks hard enough draw his back straight.

“Don’t keep me waiting.”

The Asset shivers all the way down his spine. 

“I malfunctioned. I was seen.” 

“And how did you malfunction?”

“There was a woman,” the Asset croaks. His tongue wallows in his mouth, struggling to shape the words. “She was singing.”

He reports the rest in short, halting sentences. About his former handler and how she had made him kneel, keeping perfect attention for hours during the vigil. 

“Vigil for what?”

The Asset doesn’t know. It was a stakeout in a very, very old building. Becca was there but it was difficult for her to sit. That might be why she was hanging on the staircase. It’s hard for her to sit when she has a floofy dress. She likes to twirl it round and round, until their handler tells her to fall in.

The Secretary’s grip eases on his hair. His hand draws down to cup the Asset’s neck.

“It sounds like you’ve been a very naughty boy,” he says. “But it wasn’t your fault now, was it? They’ve left you out too long. Now you’re alllll rotten.”

His handler slurs the last words like they are something to be savored. His fingers trail over the Asset’s pulse point, start to brush straight down his bare chest.

“Rotten, nasty, _naughty_ boy.”

The Asset is shaking long before the Secretary’s hand makes it below his belly. Genitals, genitals are a weakness that he cannot retract. If he lets them hamper his performance, they have promised they will cut them off. The Asset whimpers and wills them to stay still, wills them not to twitch or expand. If they jerk, they might touch the Secretary’s hand.

Wrinkled fingers pause just a pinky’s width above his cock. The Secretary’s hand lifts away so fast it leaves a rush of air in its wake.

“Fortunately, it’s Christmas!” the Secretary says. “And someone’s watching out for you.”

He reaches up to push the Asset’s dirty bangs back, tucks a clump behind the Asset’s ear. The Asset just stares, not able to comprehend. 

“You accelerated the timetable, but I was able to salvage the operation,” his handler tells him. “In fact, your timing turned out to be a blessing in disguise.”

He strains back to reach for the side table, picks up one of the flat pieces of hard tack.

“I think that deserves a cookie, don’t you?”

His handler brings the round thing to the Asset’s lips and this part - this part he understands. The Asset opens his mouth dutifully and accepts the gag. It splinters in his mouth like no plastic ever has. Half falls onto his naked belly. The rest disintegrates in his mouth. 

It tastes like spices and sugar and _home._

Home is a place that disintegrates when he thinks about it.

“Careful!” his handler chuckles. His hand comes up and the Asset attempts to give the broken bite guard back.

“No no no - chew and swallow. It’s all right. Be more careful with the next one, yes?”

The Asset chokes down a mass of spicy crumbs and smacks his lips together, trying to draw moisture back into his mouth. His handler gives him what could almost be a fond look, and brushes the traces away from his lips. 

“Gently, this time,” the Secretary says, and gives him another ‘cookie’ to clasp. This time, the Asset does not bite through it. He holds between his teeth carefully, awaiting further instruction.

“See? This is what you get for being a good boy,” his handler says. “Good boys get presents and sweets in their stockings. Did you know that?”

The Asset shakes, then nods his head. He will know whatever his handler wants. He’s so tired of being afraid, he’s so tired waiting for punishment. He just want - he just wants to be good, so it will be over. He just wants to know when his debt is paid. 

The Secretary is rubbing slow circles on his chest now - not so much wiping the crumbs off as rubbing them into his skin.

“Do you want to be a good boy for me?” his handler asks. “Do you want a nice present this year?”

Yes. He’ll be good. He’ll do anything. He’ll hold still. The Secretary’s hand squeezes over his genitals and he is very good, he doesn’t squirm or howl at all. 

“Yes,” his handler whispers. His rough lips catch on the Asset’s throat. “You’re going to be such a pretty gift.”

Long fingers curl around his cock and tug, hard. The Asset trembles and sobs at the friction. 

“You like that?” 

The Secretary’s grip tightens. He can feel the blood rushing down belly, called to his handler’s fingers. His metal fingers bite deeper into the chair, leaving unnatural dents in the leather. 

“I give you nice things, when you’re a good boy,” his handler tells him. “I always take care of you, don’t I?” 

Another long, hard stroke. 

“Don’t I?”

The Asset squeezes his eyes shut and nods, struggling to breathe around the gag. Everything smells sweet sweet sweet, the spicy cookie and the Secretary’s yellow milk and his own slick fluids. His cock is filling and he can’t help it, he _likes_ this part. 

“I give you what you need,” his handler tells him. He mouths into the Asset’s ear, catches the earlobe between his chipped teeth. “And I forgive you, when you need it. Am I not merciful?”

The Asset nods desperately. The Secretary’s hand is wringing him dry and it is going to hurt but. Please. His arm recalibrates at random, plates clicking up and down in no apparent order, unable to determine if it’s clinging tighter or preparing for defense.

“Am I not gracious?”

Another blur of strokes. The Asset’s teeth are starting to chatter into the cookie. Its structure is dangerously close to failing. 

“I know you to your bones, and I know just what you need,” the Secretary breathes. His teeth seize on the Asset’s neck. The Asset keens and arches like he is being erased, like he is dying and waking up and being defrosted all at once. 

His metal fingers spasm free of the chair, and suddenly he is being pushed, flying from the Secretary’s lap onto the very unyielding floor. The Asset gasps instinctively and chokes, starts to spray cookie crumbs everywhere.

The Secretary watches him retch, all trace of his earlier humor gone. His face might well have been carved from granite. 

“You are mine, and you will kneel only for me,” he says, and spreads his legs very wide apart.

Oh.

It is going to _hurt_.


	3. Santa Claus is coming to town

**Post Credits Coda:**

_08:17, Christmas Day_

The incoming call chime rouses him from his paper, a cheerful trill of jingle bells just perfect for the day. He minimizes the New York Times app and clicks to the little “Anonymous” face blinking at the top of the screen. Normally, he wouldn’t pick up for someone without a profile. In this instance, he was expecting it.

“Merry Christmas, Pumpkin,” Alexander Pierce smiles at his StarkTab. “How’s the new phone going?”

It takes his daughter a second to figure out the video chat, but Jenny blinks on with a minimum of up-the-nose shots.

“Wonderful. Seriously. Thank you again, Dad!” She still sounds so young when she gets excited. Even without makeup, her smiling face is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “And the girls were glued to theirs all night. I had to take them away so they would even sleep.”

“Aw. They having a good Christmas?”

“Yes. Although you kind of stole the show. When those phones started ringing under the tree? I thought Madison was going to implode.”

Jenny rotates her screen to pan over her sitting room. All three girls are arranged like stair steps, nine through four, each deeply engrossed in a neon StarkJr. 

“Say hi to Granpa!”

“Hi to Granpa!!” The girls look up only long enough to giggle, then go back to their phones.

Jenny reappears again, rolling her eyes. 

“That’s how it’s been all morning. I told you Dad, you’ve created a monster. Three of them.”

“That’s what granddads are for,” he grins. “And ‘Santa’.”

“Well, you got some true believers here,” Jenny says. “That letter about how it was ‘too hot to come down the fireplace’, so you had to leave the presents early? I don’t know when you did it, but Marcy will not stop talking about Santa. And -”

A strangled, rattling moan cuts in from the floor. He wills himself to keep a straight face.

“What was that?” Jenny asks.

“TV, Pumpkin. I’ll mute it.”

Pierce flips his StarkTab upside down and leans over the side of the bed. The Asset is laying at an awkward angle, both hands and feet restrained with mag cuffs. It appears he’s tried to flip onto his side to get away from the suspended bucket slowly dripping milk onto his face. Pierce shakes his head and readjusts the setup so the tiny hole will drip directly onto the Asset’s nose. He presses a very firm finger to his lips.

“Sorry about that,” he says when he resumes the call. “What were you saying?” 

“Nothing,” Jenny says. “Just wanted to say I think you single-handedly renewed Santa for another year. I think even Madison believes again.”

“Well, good,” he smiles. “Anything to keep the magic alive.”

As for his own little project, he thinks the Asset is coming around. He’s just going to need a lot more cookies.

**Author's Note:**

> Original prompt:
> 
> "I just want the Winter Soldier sitting on Santa!Pierce's lap. I don't care how or why or what sort of trash follows, it just needs to happen."
> 
> +
> 
> "My god three words: Milk and cookies"


End file.
